Fighting for the smallest goal just to get a little self-control
by xLaramiex
Summary: Thomas starts avoiding mealtimes. Jimmy notices, and asks him about it. Content warning for ED discussion. Non-shippy.
1. Chapter 1

I wrote this a couple of months ago and just realised I never posted it. No particular timeframe, just post series 4 I guess.

* * *

"Mr Barrow… I hope this isn't out of turn."

Thomas glanced up across the table at Jimmy curiously, probably because very little felt out of turn between them these days. Their friendship, though rocky in establishing, was firm. Jimmy had not called his friend "Mr Barrow" when they were alone for quite a while, either.

"Hm?"

Jimmy fiddled with the cards in his hands as he spoke. "You haven't been coming to meals much these past couple of weeks. I hope you're not ill?"

Thomas played a card, and was silent for so long Jimmy was not sure if he had not heard his question or was ignoring it.

"Y'ever felt like there's too much of yourself, Jimmy?" Thomas asked at last, the roughness of his Yorkshire accent coming out.

Normally Jimmy loved when he would relax into his 'below-stairs' voice, as he had come to think of it, but today the brittleness of it seemed to indicate nervousness.

"No," Jimmy replied.

"No," Thomas repeated idly. Ash dropped from the cigarette onto the table he was normally so careful to keep clean. "Damn," he muttered, picking up the bowl he was using and sweeping the ashes into it.

Jimmy almost thought the conversation was closed, but then Thomas added, "I guess you wouldn't."

"And if I did, I'd be grateful for it. I've never known true poverty but I've had my share of hunger and it's not something to be thankful for."

"Hm," Thomas replied again.

Jimmy had the uncomfortable feeling that he had disappointed his friend, though he could not for the life of him figure out why.

Thomas showed him his hand of cards to indicate that he had won their game of gin, and re-dealt in silence.

"Is that how _you_ feel?" Jimmy asked, when they were both safely staring at their new cards to look for pairs.

"I've been here just about all my life," Thomas replied, which did not answer Jimmy's question at all. At least, not in any way that Jimmy could understand.

"You know what my favourite colour is, Jimmy?"

"No." He was getting mental whiplash trying to keep up with Thomas' remarks. Each seemed completely disconnected and yet profoundly the same.

"Nor does anyone else here." He tilted his head back and blew a smoke ring thoughtfully. "Nor do I, come to that."

Thomas took another drag and Jimmy watched his nostrils flare as he blew smoke heavily out of his nose, before hunching back over his hand of cards.

"Do you know why they keep me here? A suspected thief, a known liar and a confirmed gossip?"

The question seemed rhetorical, so Jimmy waited for Thomas to answer it, playing another card as he did.

"Because I was born to a uniform, and I carry myself well," Thomas said bitterly. "That's all I've got going for me. This place is too small for me, but I'm not enough for it either. I don't really have any say over anything."

Jimmy struggled through this. "So you don't come to dinner because that's something you have a say over?"

Thomas' gaze flickered to meet Jimmy's for a brief second. "And other reasons."

"I'm sorry, Thomas, I don't understand," Jimmy admitted.

"No," Thomas said in what sounded like agreement. "Don't worry about it Jimmy, eh?"

And Jimmy realised that he had been kindly but uncompromisingly dismissed. They packed up not long after that, and went to bed.

* * *

The next morning, when Thomas was carefully too busy for breakfast, he saw Jimmy mutter something to Mr Carson before following him into his office. He never did find out what Jimmy had said, but that evening when Thomas told Mr Carson that he would be absent to wind a clock the butler said firmly, "No, Mr Barrow, you will come to supper."


	2. Chapter 2: Thomas

_This is already on ao3 but since there are a couple of people following here on ffn I thought I'd cross-post in case anyone's not aware._

_Please note that this story describes disordered eating and associated behaviours in detail, which do not get fixed/cured at the end._

_I'm officially placing this as an AU following 5.01 in which Jimmy is not sacked for his indiscretion._

_Section titles are lyrics that fit, from various songs, pronouns changed where appropriate. And I mean, it's not like I can really stop you but I'd advise you don't look them up, okay?_

_Oh, and one more thing. Usually I'm all for headcanons of my fics and readers taking what they want out of it, but in this case it's really important to me that this is a friendship. So while I guess you can still interpret it however you like, I'd be very grateful if you respect that if you leave a review. Thank you!_

* * *

**Running on the speed of light**

Thomas went to supper as he had been told, full of resentment, angry that Mr Carson was treating him like a child. He was an adult; he could do as he chose.

He could not, however, risk drawing too much attention, from either Mr Carson or Jimmy, so he ate, frowning down at his bowl all the way through, until the (thick, hot, delicious) stew had disappeared. As he set down his spoon, Thomas glanced up at Jimmy, an unintentional element of aggressive _happy now?_ in his gaze.

Jimmy just gave him a small smile, which tugged only at his lips; his eyes remained unmoved. Somehow that was worse, because now it looked as though he needed Jimmy's approval, and the indignity of that was stifling.

Thomas found himself abruptly on his feet before he remembered to ask, "Might I be excused, Mr Carson?"

"Certainly," Mr Carson agreed, his spoon poised in the air. He looked slightly surprised; most of the others still had a quarter-bowl or more left to eat.

The stew seemed to expand in his stomach as Thomas stalked away, going out into the yard for a smoke, only when he got there he kept walking, pressing a hand to the mass that was filling every inch from the bottom of his abdomen to the back of his throat.

He kept walking until he reached the edge of the estate, because he didn't know how to stop, because he couldn't face going back and seeing those same toxic rooms again, the same people. He had been doing this for months now, whatever _this_ was, and no one until Jimmy had noticed a thing. When _had_ it started? It had been cold, he remembered. He had a sudden, vivid recollection of walking across the grounds in the frost with his stomach rumbling. And it was heading for winter again now; he could feel it in the chill breeze that crossed his face as he tramped across the grass.

His head swirled with panic and _shouldn't have done, should have done, shouldn't have done, should have done_, because he knew with every step that he had to balance between what he wanted to do and what he had to do to stop them _realising_ what he wanted to do.

Probably no one would care, but he couldn't risk it. And added to that, the whole thing made him feel vaguely ashamed in a way he couldn't understand. He just could not bear for anyone to know; he regretted, fiercely, telling Jimmy anything.

* * *

**Hiding from the eyes that see I have been defeated**

Breakfast was easy to avoid. Thomas had simply come down too late for it more and more often, until it was taken for granted that he did not attend. At lunch he often contrived to have some unavoidable and urgent errand to run, away from Downton as often as possible so that he could return claiming that he had eaten a large luncheon already and could not stomach much dinner. He felt a giddy sensation of victory whenever he got something past them.

Sometimes Mrs Patmore made him something to take out with him, which he threw in the first bin he came to, in order to avoid any chance of him giving in to temptation. He tried not to let it happen too often, however, because although he enjoyed the idea of the Granthams paying for food that the rats would eat, he felt guilty for using Mrs Patmore's time.

The meals he ate, he picked at, trying to make it look as though he had eaten more than he had. All in all, he was eating less than half that of what he had used to. He spent most of his days deep inside his head, planning how to avoid his meals without being noticed.

Nobody seemed to note his absences from the table, however. Perhaps Miss Baxter would have, only she was wrapped up with Mr Molesley. Only Jimmy saw that anything was amiss. He confronted Thomas a few weeks after their conversation over cards. It was a grey day. Thomas had stepped outside to let his smoke become one with the clouds, and Jimmy had followed with a frown that unnerved him.

Jimmy took out a cigarette, lighting it with Thomas' offered lighter, and smoked without speaking to or looking at him for several minutes. Thomas' stomach churned uncomfortably. He prayed it would not rumble. Perhaps he could blame it on thunder; it did look as though there might be a storm.

"You look tired, Thomas," Jimmy said at last. Thomas felt almost relieved that he had finally brought it up, so that there was something to deny. "You're working too hard. Downton won't fall just because you take half an hour's break."

And Thomas heard behind his words: _You're not important, nothing you do matters._ "I'm fine," he replied, without inflection. "Got to take care of the place."

"You've got to take care of yourself, too."

"I'm _fine_," Thomas insisted, turning his head to fix Jimmy with a stern look. "I'm not a child."

"I know you're not," Jimmy replied, meeting his gaze steadily despite the look of discomfort that was spread across his features.

"So don't treat me like one," Thomas muttered, which ironically made him _feel_ like a child. He decided it was time to end the conversation; he flicked his unfinished cigarette away and turned to go inside.

"I just want you to be okay," Jimmy said to his back. Thomas did not turn around.

* * *

**Late in the night, when the day is complete, sometimes I'm human, sometimes I eat**

It was twelve minutes past two. The house was in a rare hour of quiet, after everyone had retired to bed and before the lowest-ranking servants rose to light the first fires of the day. The night was sleeping, only the soft breaths of humans and the snuffling of mice to break the silence.

An almost-full moon shone blueish light through Thomas' open window, reflecting in his open eyes. He was the only one in the house still awake. If he was cold, his body would use more energy in keeping him warm, so he slept with the window open, but it made it hard to sleep sometimes. On this night, he could not sleep at all.

Thomas was hungry.

He was so hungry his stomach was not even rumbling any more, it just_hurt_. He pressed his hands into the gaping pain, trying to reduce the emptiness. Water did not help, when he drank the glass he had prepared that evening. Everything was cold and clear and empty. There was nothing inside him, no stomach, no liver, no kidneys, no heart, only the emptiness.

Standing, Thomas was drawn down the stairs. The candle he held in one hand flickered against the walls, making false shadows as he descended. He was afraid of meeting anyone on the stairs, though he knew he could lie his way out of it. No one could know. No one could know he was here.

When he reached the ground floor, he froze in the hall in indecision. Was he going to do this? Was he really going to do this?

His feet carried him into Mrs Hughes' room. He knew where she kept the key to the pantry.

He could hear his own breathing as he turned the lock with a cringingly loud clicking.

There was _so much food_. After his self-imposed scarcity of the last - seven months? eight? - it was almost overwhelming. The large open shelves were covered. There were jars upon jars of fruit preserves. A large bowl with a plate on top which he knew would contain fruit, covered against mice. A jug of milk with a muslin cover. A few half-eaten loaves of bread. Butter. Pickled eggs. Large tins of sugar and flour. A half-eaten joint of roast beef under an inverted bowl.

Thomas started with the beef, carving a slice off that he hoped was thin enough not to be missed, cramming it into his mouth with his fingers before he could change his mind. While he chewed, a few loaves of bread lost a quarter-inch each, which he swiped through the butter, hands ferrying food to his mouth, hardly tasting, hardly thinking, hardly in control. He removed the lid from a jar of apricot preserve, diverted to the kitchen for a fork, ate the sweet sticky fruit straight from the jar on his way back to the pantry.

Part of a stale cake was obscured at the back of a shelf; this too he ate from with the fork, trying not to disturb the straight line which had been cut as he took crumbly forkfuls. He speared and chewed a piece from a bowl of leftover boiled potatoes, cool and grainy, that were probably destined to be the dog's breakfast.

Marzipan. He ripped pieces from the block, smoothed it over to look untouched, replaced the wrapper. He left the apples, ate two handfuls of nuts, the frenzy fading now but the urge still strong. If he stopped now he would be _hungry_. He had to eat because when he stopped he would have to face what he had done.

He drank from the milk jug, wiped his mouth. Stood in the dark pantry listening to his rapid breathing, feeling his heart flutter, feeling the dark hand of fear closing over his shoulders.

Leaving the candle behind, Thomas went out to the yard; he needed some quiet, he needed… He wasn't sure what he needed. He stood in the darkness, rubbing his pressing stomach, feeling insignificant under the dark sky. The clouds obscured the stars and Thomas was nothing. Something was sick and rotten deep inside him and he had to starve it out, eat it out. The sickness was the stomach pain. The sickness was the fear. The sickness was the way he had eaten tonight. But he was better than that; he could beat it. Missing meals was so calming. It made everything better. It made the rotten feeling less painful for a few hours.

Thomas turned and made his way back to the pantry to pick up his candle, relief warring with panic and fear inside him. He cut another slice of bread, returned the utensils and the key to their rightful places, and ate the bread on his way upstairs.

His very teeth felt contaminated as his tongue swiped stray food from between them, the stickiness of the marzipan turning them fuzzy.

Back in his room, he blew out the candle and lay on his back in the dark, his belly rising obscenely under the bedclothes, tears leaking silently from his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3: Jimmy

**I grabbed hold of his wrist and my hand closed from tip-to-tip, I said, "you've taken the diet too far, you have got to let it slip", but he's not eating again**

Jimmy and Alfred were "loitering" in the corridor, as Mr Carson would have put it. More fairly, they were waiting to be called into the kitchen to pick up the next course of dinner.

"Hey Alfred," Jimmy said, bored. "Look what I found out last night." He held up his left arm, his hand dangling down. "If you squeeze your wrist, it makes your fingers curl." He demonstrated.

"How do I know you're not just moving your fingers?" Alfred demanded, holding up his own hand and squeezing his wrist in front of his face.

"You're supposed to relax your hand," Jimmy said impatiently. "Here, give me your arm." Alfred did so, letting his hand droop at Jimmy's instruction. Jimmy squeezed his wrist firmly.

Alfred flinched away as his fingers moved involuntarily. "'Ow did you do that?" he yelped.

"What's going on here?" asked Thomas, coming upon them.

"I'm showing Alfred something, here look Mr Barrow, give me your arm."

Thomas looked at him warily, but held out his arm.

Jimmy gripped his wrist. "Now hold your arm up, but let your hand relax." Thomas did so, and Jimmy squeezed, pushing his fingertips into the groove between Thomas' arm bones, making his fingers curl and relax and curl again. Thomas watched them move with a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but Jimmy frowned. Thomas' wrist was very slender; bone and nothing else.

Thomas abruptly pulled his arm away, and Jimmy, automatically following its motion to Thomas' side with his eyes, saw that Thomas was turned on. Rapidly returning his gaze to Thomas' face, he saw that his friend had gone as red as he felt his own face turning.

"Thank you, Jimmy. Very interesting," he said unsteadily.

Jimmy sensed that he was trying to retain his dignity, so he said as calmly as he could, "You're quite welcome, Mr Barrow."

Any further embarrassment was avoided, thankfully, by Mrs Patmore calling the two footmen into the kitchen.


	4. Chapter 4: Thomas

**Now I feel skin-deep**

Jimmy came into Thomas' room sometimes; that was not unusual. What _was_ out of the ordinary was the nervousness under his skin. Thomas knew he was working up to something from the way he lounged on Thomas' bed, hair on fire in the sunset, smoking cigarettes end-to-end and fidgeting. It filled Thomas with dread.

Jimmy carried on a normal conversation for a while, moaning half-heartedly about the mountain of silver he had polished that day, but there was a pinched, resigned look on his beautifully expressive face. Eventually, when Thomas was washing his face at the vanity with his back to Jimmy, he brought up the reason for his frown.

"You're not eating," he said flatly.

"Of course I am." Thomas patted his face dry with a towel and turned, leaning against the vanity.

"You're not eating _enough_," Jimmy corrected himself.

Thomas forced a smile. "Of course I am," he repeated in the same flippant tone as before, because _clearly_ he was eating enough; he was standing here, after all, after carrying out his duties to Carson's satisfaction, and if his head pained him and his limbs ached, well what of it?

"Yer _not_," Jimmy insisted.

"Just _leave_ it, Jimmy," Thomas snapped, regretting it instantly as it gave too much away.

"I can't leave it, because you're my friend and you look awful." _You look fat._

"So kind of you to say," Thomas bit out sarcastically. He hated the way Jimmy could make him lose his cool, could burrow under his defences.

"You know what I mean," Jimmy replied doggedly. "You look tired and ill. It's like you're not even there sometimes. I'm _worried_ about you."

Thomas did not want Jimmy to worry. He wanted Jimmy to leave him alone; so he reined in his temper and insecurities as best he could (which was not very well at all) and said, "There's no need." He tried to stare Jimmy down, but his friend met his gaze fiercely.

"If you don't stop it, I'll tell Carson you can't do your job properly because you're refusing to eat."

Thomas felt sick. Carson wouldn't care a damn for Thomas' mental state, but if he thought that it was impairing Thomas' ability to work… he might make Thomas stop. "This is all I've got, Jimmy," he pleaded, embarrassed at the desperation in his own voice. "Please don't take it away from me."

Jimmy chewed his lip, staring at Thomas in the fading light with lines of worry between his brows. "Is it my fault?"

To Thomas' surprise and horror, he sounded tearful.

Thomas pulled out his best sneer and said coldly, but honestly, "Not everything is about _you_, Jimmy."

Jimmy's face set, his eyes became icy, and even though this was what Thomas had wanted, for Jimmy to _stop caring_ so that Thomas could do whatever he wished in peace, he suddenly wanted to weep.

Then Jimmy said stolidly, "I'm not eating until you do," and Thomas tasted the promise in them.

"Fine," Thomas said coolly, determined not to let Jimmy see either his relief that he did not seem to be planning to tell Carson, nor his renewed panic at this prospect.

* * *

**You've got a million different faces, so why d'you put on that disguise?**

After Jimmy had made his promise, Thomas began to wonder just how long he could go without eating. He would bet he could beat Jimmy. Definitely.

He slept through breakfast that morning, as had become his custom (he could not seem to get enough sleep these days; perhaps it was the weather, the relentless turn into winter). He did his morning press-ups, harking back to the army, wanting to gain some muscle in his arms. _If I get to 30, Jimmy will have forgotten_, he told himself as he laboured, trying to believe it. When he came downstairs, Jimmy was sitting at the table with a clean, unused plate in front of him, which he pushed an inch towards Thomas as he came into the room with his tea.

Thomas ignored his challenging eyes, set down his tea, and walked away to start his day. He could hardly concentrate on his tasks, distracted as he was by wondering how to get Jimmy to eat something without having to himself. He did not want Jimmy to go hungry.

At upstairs' lunch, Thomas offered to take Isis for a walk, as Lord Grantham was busy. He took the dog out during his own lunchtime. Jimmy joined him without comment, and they walked for two hours without saying a word to each other.

Thomas took a savage pleasure in the ache and burn in his leg muscles. He had grown fat since becoming under-butler; it was about time he got a bit fitter. Perhaps he could take the dog on his evening walks, she might like that, and it would be company for him instead of walking about the countryside in increasing darkness as the nights drew in earlier and earlier. He wore two pairs of socks and still came home with chilblains on his toes that itched maddeningly while he was supposed to be standing still and impassive during meals.

"Why are you doing this?" Thomas snapped suddenly, as they were entering the yard with Isis. The dog's tongue lolled happily as she trotted across the stones. Thomas watched her with a scowl.

"If what you're doing is okay, you won't mind doing it to me, will you," Jimmy said rhetorically.

"I'm not _doing_ anything."

"We'll see." Jimmy took the dog inside to wipe her paws before she was allowed upstairs.


	5. Chapter 5: Jimmy

**Lies in bed at night and can't sleep, his tummy hurts 'cause he hasn't had enough to eat**

Jimmy could hardly sleep for worrying.

Granted, the ache in his stomach did nothing to help matters, but the ache in his heart was worse.

He lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, both hands clasping his empty stomach and hoping that he was the only one who could hear it rumble. It was almost a relief when it did, as it was a temporary let-up from the slow build-up of gaping pains.

When all this had started, he had guessed that Thomas was ill; perhaps a touch of flu, or a stomach ache. Then his first conversation with Thomas had made him think that his friend was overworked, or, or sad or - something.

He had not eaten for 26 hours now. Lord in Heaven, he was hungry.

Jimmy had asked Mr Carson to show Thomas some kindness, said that he was being ill-used and needed time to eat and sleep like any other mortal man. Thomas had eaten a full meal that night, to Jimmy's relief, but had risen with such impropriety that all his worries had returned twofold. The feel of Thomas' frail wrist in his hand haunted him.

Now he was beginning to wonder if Thomas was ill in a different way.


	6. Chapter 6: Thomas

**He says he doesn't have a problem but he's lying**

On the second day, Thomas offered Jimmy a stolen biscuit on their smoke break before lunch. Jimmy took it and looked at him sternly.

"Have you had one?"

Thomas hesitated. "Yes," he lied.

The biscuit fell to the floor, and met its end by the heel of Jimmy's boot.

"Don't believe you."

Thomas merely shrugged, leant back on the wall and went back to his cigarette. He was beginning to feel oddly alert, despite his tiredness, as though everything was just _more_ than usual.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was flagging. As he lifted the cigarette to his lips, Thomas saw that his hand was trembling.

"You should eat somethin'."

"So should you. Look how much weight you've lost," Jimmy countered, catching Thomas' forearm in his free hand and holding it up between them, and Thomas knew he was saying_ You've always been so fat, it's strange to see you finally doing something about it._ "I'll eat when you do."

"You're being ridiculous."

"_You're_ being ridiculous, Thomas."

Thomas sniffed derisively. "I'm fine." He could go without food longer than Jimmy. He had to. If Jimmy could do it, it was normal, and Thomas should be able to do better.

Jimmy looked at him, and Thomas saw the way his gaze swept over Thomas' bloated stomach, the bowing-out of his shirt, the huge arms that were not from muscle, the bulging neck. Thomas felt so unbearably self-conscious that he wanted to shout or to break something; anything to stop Jimmy looking at him with that pitying, _I'm sorry you're ugly_ expression.

Thomas flicked his spent cigarette at Jimmy's chest, just to distract him, and said flatly, "It's my half-day. I'm going into the village for lunch."

"But I'm stuck here," Jimmy frowned, his cigarette forgotten and hovering half-way towards his perfect mouth.

"I know. I'm just telling you so you can have lunch here." He pushed off the wall and went inside to fetch his coat, before walking into the village.

He didn't eat, though he did stand outside the bakery for a few minutes, smelling the bread baking. God, he missed bread. It smelled heavenly. But bread was for other people to eat, it wasn't for _him_. It was more a smell than a taste now. Despite this, he only allowed himself a short time standing there, for fear that he would buy something without even meaning to.

Thomas amused himself looking around the shops for a while, flicking through books and gazing longingly at a stunning grandfather clock which cost a year of his wages. At one point, he saw Isobel Crawley walking down the road, which gave him an idea.

On his return to the Abbey, he feigned illness. Mrs Patmore gave him a mug of warm milk to take to his room, promising to send Daisy up with a tray later.

Thomas lay in bed, reading the newspaper he had bought and hoping his idea would work.

When Daisy delivered the tray of beef stew and bread, he waited just long enough for her to be out of earshot before rising from his bed (taking his now-customary pause to let the blackness in his vision recede) and carrying the bowl of stew to the bathroom. It was, luckily, unoccupied, so he entered unobserved and emptied the food into the toilet. It took two flushes to disappear.

He crept back to his room with the empty bowl and perched on the windowsill to spread torn-off pieces of bread along the outside sill, for the birds, covering his fingers with gritty crumbs.

"You bastard," came Jimmy's voice, and Thomas' head whipped around to see that Jimmy had entered silently through his half-open door.

"I had a few crumbs left," Thomas said, discreetly pushing the largest piece of bread off the edge.

Jimmy padded over and scowled at the windowsill. "There's almost the whole bap there," he said. "And your spoon's still clean."

"I'm a tidy eater," Thomas replied, staring down at the grass far below in favour of meeting his eyes. "Checking up on me, are you?"

"You haven't had time to finish all this."

"Well clearly I have," Thomas grunted, but he did not know why he insisted in keeping up the charade, because Jimmy knew that he had not eaten the dinner.

Thomas could not read Jimmy's expression as he looked at him, but after a moment he said, "Cards?", and Thomas agreed. He got down from the windowsill, and it took his tired legs a moment too long to support him.

He did not go for a walk that evening; instead they played cards late into the night, and it was so _almost_ what Thomas wanted that he felt like crying.


	7. Chapter 7: Jimmy

**Hunger takes a hold of me, making my decision**

By the third day, Jimmy did not really feel hungry any more; at least, not in his stomach. Instead, he felt faint and lightheaded, but sharper somehow, too. He was thinking about food constantly, staring covetously at the chicken he was serving for upstairs.

Mrs Hughes was already shooting him worried glances, which made him wonder how on earth Thomas had been hiding it for so long.

He wished, sometimes, that he was in love with Thomas. Despite the illegality, it seemed _easier_.

And if he was Thomas' lover, maybe he could convince him to eat.

He had even tried, once, getting off to thoughts of Thomas. He had cast his mind back to their cinema visit the week before, using the dark and the closeness as fodder for a fantasy in which Thomas turned to him and touched his face and _other places_ with his hands, his lips.

It didn't work. He couldn't do it. He had had to turn his thoughts to the woman in the flick before he had got anywhere. He might love Thomas with every fibre of his being, but he couldn't give him what he wanted.

Good Lord, he could eat a meat pie just now. Even an apple. A bag of chips from the shop in Ripon.

He stopped Thomas in the passageway on his third morning without food. "Please eat lunch, I'm damn well famished," he muttered.

But Thomas said only, "I'm not stopping you."


	8. Chapter 8: Thomas

**I am heavy, I feel frail**

The third day of Jimmy's stupid bargain. Thomas snapped at hallboys and received a telling-off from Mr Carson for his _attitude_. "I do my duties, Mr Carson, and more so," he replied evenly. "I'm not obliged to enjoy it into the bargain."

Jimmy looked weary. Distant. Thomas needed him to eat.

When they sat down to lunch, Thomas stared down at his plate. He had no desire to eat. It all looked about as appetising as the plate it sat on; not disgusting, just fundamentally not-for-eating.

He glanced up at Jimmy, who was looking at him, then back at the peas. He took a forkful, transferred it to his mouth, and chewed listlessly, mourning the loss of that clean, unsullied feeling in his mouth.

He saw that Jimmy had taken a mouthful too, and smiled with relief.

Jimmy smiled back, small and lopsided.

Thomas let the conversation of the other staff fade into the background, playing with his food to make it look as though he was eating, wondering if he could drop any on the floor.

A few minutes later, Thomas looked up to see that Jimmy sat with his arms folded, leaning back on his chair and frowning at Thomas. His dinner looked untouched. Thomas took another forkful; so did Jimmy. Then he stopped, and so did Jimmy.

Rage boiled up inside Thomas in a second; he stood up, the blackness tunnelling his vision as he leaned over the table towards his friend and snarled, "_Go to hell, Jimmy._"

Ignoring the various gasps and noises of reproach around the table, he stormed out of the room and dragged himself upstairs, feeling as though he was leaving the anger behind as he climbed. He was unable to sustain the feeling, slipping instead into the usual greyness as he focused solely on getting himself to his room. It shouldn't be this hard, he was so unfit, he was so _unfit_ and _weak_, no wonder Jimmy didn't love him when he was so _fat_.

Thomas choked on a breath, gasping as he finally reached the top landing, and paused at the top, holding tightly to the handrail to make up for his inability to balance.

Wouldn't it be easier if he was dead?

He was _so tired_. He should go for a walk. He should go for a walk but he was so tired and he would have to walk past Jimmy and Mrs Hughes. Maybe he could just lie down for a while. He could still go later.


	9. Chapter 9: Jimmy

**I am not a man who will ever break you**

Once the gasps and demands of "what happened, Jimmy?" stopped, Jimmy spent the rest of the meal staring at the seat Thomas had vacated as he chewed absent-mindedly - joining Thomas in his refusal to eat was not helping anything, and it seemed foolish to continue. It tasted like the best meal he had ever had.

He didn't know how to make it right, he just wanted Thomas to be well, and happy. Wasn't Jimmy enough? He may not be attracted to Thomas in the same way that Thomas was attracted to him, but they were friends, they loved each other, they looked out for each other. Why couldn't that be enough?

"James," said Mrs Hughes, startling him out of his contemplation. "Could I have a word with you?"

Jimmy nodded, rose from the table and followed Mrs Hughes into her room, where she bade him sit at the small table and put a box of biscuits between them. Despite most of his brain being occupied with worrying about Thomas, Jimmy could appreciate how strange this situation was.

"Now, Jimmy," she began kindly. "It seems yourself and Mr Barrow have had something of a falling-out, am I right?"

"Something like that," Jimmy admitted. It felt good to be able to confess even this small amount.

"It's not like the two of you to be at odds. I thought you were friends now?"

"We are, Mrs Hughes. The best of friends, usually. Only…" Jimmy frowned down at the table, wondering how much he should tell.

"Only what?" Mrs Hughes prompted.

"Only, I was trying to help him and he didn't much like it."

"Help him?" she asked, looking concerned. "Is there something wrong?"

Jimmy hesitated again. "I don't think he'd quite like me to tell you, Mrs Hughes, if you don't mind."

"He is a very private person." Mrs Hughes smiled fondly. "But I hope you know you don't have to do this on your own, whatever it is. If you need any help or you want to talk to somebody, Mr Carson and I would both be very willing to hear your concerns."

"I think you might be overestimating Mr Carson's good will," Jimmy said wryly.

Instead of scolding him, Mrs Hughes dipped her head in acknowledgement. "I think you could be right," she said conspiratorially. "But he'll listen, and I definitely will, if you need to speak."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes. Now, I think I'll go and see how Thomas is. May I take him a biscuit?"

Mrs Hughes agreed, so Jimmy took two digestive biscuits from the box and left the room, before making his way upstairs to Thomas' room. There was no response to his knock, so Jimmy slowly pushed open the door. Thomas was lying curled on his side in bed, his back to the door. Jimmy watched him breathing for a few seconds, unsure if he was sleeping, and realised that he could see the line of his spine beneath the undershirt he was wearing. Jimmy padded softly across the room and laid his hand on one thin shoulder, feeling the bones under his palm. "Are you awake?" he murmured.

Jimmy's hand fell from his shoulder as Thomas rolled onto his back. His eyes were open but he did not look at Jimmy as he perched on the edge of the bed. He could see the start of Thomas' collar bones poking out. Jimmy was reminded painfully of sitting at a hospital bed.

Thomas laboriously pushed himself up the bed a foot or two, until he was half-sitting with his bony shoulders against the pillows.

"I've got biscuits," Jimmy said, in lieu of anything else. "Look." Two heavily shadowed eyes flickered over to watch as Jimmy ate one, before holding out the other. Thomas took it reluctantly from his fingers, and ate it. For a split second Jimmy imagined that it was all as simple as that, breaking the impasse between them and getting Thomas to eat; but the bigger part of him knew that it was not. Thomas had been like this for weeks, months; Thomas' appearance made Jimmy realise that it had been going on for far longer than he had thought. It was not something that could be fixed with a biscuit (no matter how much Jimmy felt that _everything_ could be fixed with a biscuit).

"Are you alright?"

"Leave me alone, Jimmy. I'm tired." Thomas' voice creaked like a rusted door. His head was tilted slightly away, his eyes fixed on the slip of orange sky he could see through the window.

Jimmy watched him, his thoughts in turmoil, wanting to help, to hold him, to smack him right in the face for being such an arse. "Why are you doing this?" he implored softly.

"I'm nothing," Thomas said hollowly, without looking at him, "and I'm ugly. This… makes it better."

Jimmy chewed his lip, his eyes beginning to brim with tears. "If I was in love with you, would it help?" he asked shakily.

Thomas was silent for a few seconds. "No," he murmured, and it sounded as though he was telling the truth. "It's not really about that."

The tears spilled over and Jimmy looked away, trying to hide them, trying to control the spasms in his abdomen; but he couldn't, and soon he was weeping openly in pain and in fear. "Please start eating properly, Thomas," he begged through his sobs. He clutched Thomas' arm tightly with both hands, feeling nothing but skin and bone under his fingers. "Please, I love you, you're scaring me. Please eat."

Thomas only shook his head. "I can't."

**I need you to know**  
**I'm not through the night**  
**Some days I'm still fighting to walk towards the light**  
**I need you to know**  
**That we'll be OK**  
**Together we can make it through another day**


End file.
